


Like A Dog Without A Bone

by BlasphemousProphet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chubby Draco Malfoy, Eating Disorders, M/M, Post War, malfoy family study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 11:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10385286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlasphemousProphet/pseuds/BlasphemousProphet
Summary: After three months in Azkaban, Draco Malfoy's gained some weight. He looks nothing like his father, nothing like a Malfoy should. Draco looks like someone completely new, someone invisible. So why is Harry Potter still sniffing around him?





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the great ocean of Draco x Harry stuff. There isn't enough about characters having unsexy rebellions here, that don't involve sleeping around or cigarettes or whatever. We need more normal bodies in the fandom. Content warning for discussions of disordered eating and self hate regarding body stuff.

**Eighth year, Hogwarts, First Day of School**

Now Draco understood where the expression ‘filled with shame’ came from. It was as though he was a cauldron and shame one of the main ingredients and someone was swirling it into him, pouring faster and faster, until he felt as though he would explode from the feeling of it.

Walking through the halls of Hogwarts, the stares burnt into him. It was as though there were a thousand sixth year age Harry Potters stalking him wherever he went. But surely most of it was in his head, it had to be-

“Blimey, Draco got chunky over the summer,” said a loud voice. Ron Weasley, cackling with Hermione. Draco swore to himself he wouldn’t look up to see if Harry was with them. “Didn’t know they fed em so well in Azkaban. He almost looks like Dudley now, doesn’t he?”

Draco accidentally looked up and made eye contact with Hermione, who had swatted Ron on the arm for his comments. And there was Harry, right next to his friends, looking right at Draco.

If shame was the first ingredient in Draco’s recipe, regret was always the second. There it was now, being ladled into him liberally, prompted by the mere sight of the great Harry Potter.

Harry blinked at him. And Harry, after defeating the dark lord, looked the same as he always did. Scrawny, skinny, messy, with his hair sticking up where he had ran his fingers through it. He did look a bit thinner than he usually did, though.

Draco picked up his pace and disappeared around the bend of the corridor, desperate to get out of sight.

White blonde hair, tall slim bodies, angular features. These had all been Draco’s birthright, the careful result of centuries of selective mating. They were the reason his mother had once drunkenly mistook him for Lucius. They were the reason the Dark Lord said “such a pretty boy, isn’t he? So slim, like you, Lucius.” They were the cause of countless sideways glances, fluttered eyelashes and a few bent over backs. They were the reason Harry Potter had ever been interested in him. And now all of it was gone.

See, the thing was, they didn’t feed ‘em so well in Azkaban. In fact, they barely fed them at all. a charred bit of some unidentifiable meat one time a day was all each prisoner got. If you could choke it down, the loo was two foot from your bed. And before Azkaban, there hadn’t been much food in Malfoy Manor. Not when Death Eaters were constantly lingering around, stripping the manor of any delicacies it might have possessed in its store rooms. Not when Voldemort was watching, his greedy eyes cataloguing and analyzing for anything you might have the weakness of enjoying. It had been a while since Draco got to eat.

Three months in Azkaban, then the great Harry Potter’s testimony and Draco got to go home. At the courthouse it was a shaky handshake given to Harry and Draco collapsed into his mother’s arms. At the manor that night Draco woke up hungry. The war was over. Voldemort was gone. Draco was hungry. He started eating and he couldn’t stop. Draco ordered the house elves to bring him whatever food he could find. He wanted to eat in the house where he couldn’t eat before.

By the time the Hogwarts letter arrived, Draco had gained a considerable amount of weight. Draco had gained the weight with the understanding that he was done with the world and the world was done with him. He had been a racist, death eater, revolting excuse for a human being and he would carry that with him always. No one wanted to see him ever again and Draco couldn’t blame them.

All the things that had mattered to Draco, the smooth clean lines of a new cloak, commanding a room at a wizarding ball with a glance, all of that was irrelevant. Or so he thought. Draco didn’t want to look like his father anymore. He didn’t want to look like anyone worthy of notice. He wanted to disappear. Then-

“You’re finishing your education, my darling,” Narcissa said. She looked distant. She always looked distant these days. “These are your prospects.”

Prospects. What prospects?

If Narcissa had noticed Malfoy’s new diet, she hadn’t said anything.

Draco couldn’t disappoint his mother. She was the last, no, the only person who loved him. He would take the whispering and the hexes and the naked hatred and he would eat his chocolate frogs alone in a bathroom and he would bloody well enjoy them because they were all he had. So Draco went to Hogwarts in his eighth year.

Now Harry caught up with Draco.

“Draco!” Harry called.

Draco wouldn’t allow himself to turn around. If he turned around Harry would see just how unattractive he was, how unworthy Draco was of Harry’s attention, how Draco had failed at everything, from his quivering belly to his only-just-begun-to-fade Dark Mark.

Harry pulled Draco into the empty Charms classroom.

“What?” snapped Draco.

“I dunno,” said Harry. “You look different.”

“Yeah!” said Draco, his patience fragmenting with fear of being seen, caught out, called out for what he was.

“I always thought you were well fit,” said Harry with a shrug. “You still are.”

“No I’m not,” said Draco automatically. Then he registered Harry’s words.

“I like your face,” said Harry, not realizing Draco’s change of mood. “Still.”

Waves of anguish roared and crashed and crescendoed inside Draco and he was repulsed to find that he was wiping a sniffly nose on his Twilfitt’s robe, the last Twilfitt’s robe that still fit him. “If you thought I was so fit,” choked out Draco, “why didn’t you do something? Everyone knew I was bent-“

“I…didn’t,” said Harry.

“Hermione caught me kissing Nott that one time-“

“She never said anything!”

“Ron saw me dancing with Polkiss at the Yule Ball-“

“What? I thought you went with Pansy!”

“All the Gryffindors knew!”

“Well, not me,” said Harry. “Besides, you were a death eater who hated me, remember?”

Draco’s sniffles turned to great hacking bitter laughter. “Potter, I never hated you. I wanted to be you. Or just be near you. Whichever one I could.”

Harry’s eyes widened in shock. “I didn’t – I never-“

“If you thought I was so fit, why didn’t you say anything?” said Draco stormily. “Why didn’t you save me?”

Harry’s eyes widened even farther than Draco had thought possible. “Malfoy, I’m not the knight in shining amour of the wizarding world,” he said slowly.

“The what?”

“Muggle thing. You wouldn’t get it.”

“No, I get it,” said Draco. “And yes you are.”

Harry stood up. “No, I’m not!” he snapped. “You are responsible for your own mistakes, Malfoy. Pardon me if I didn’t want to snog a death eater in training, even if I did find him attractive. Pardon me if the great pointy git seemed like he wanted to murder me and all my friends so I didn’t plan on saving him.”

Draco closed his eyes. “Then why are you here now?” he said.

Harry toed the ground with his shoes awkwardly. “I just saw that you looked- y’know, uncomfortable, with your body and all and I just wanted to tell you that you’re still…nice looking. Just softer now.”

“Thanks,” said Draco quietly.

“And I heard how you donated the Malfoy estate to charity,” said Harry.

“I did,” said Draco.

“That’s – that’s good,” said Harry.

“I didn’t want to go back there anyway,” said Draco.

“Still,” said Harry. “S’good.”

“It’s not good,” said Draco. “It’s not enough. Nothing I ever do will be enough.”

Draco hoped Harry would tell him he was wrong, that giving up centuries of wealth was enough to atone for all the murders, that the public would forget soon enough, that his soft face would be enough for Harry to think him fit again.

But Harry just put his hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco put his head in his hands. Eventually Harry left. Draco went back to his dormitory, drew the curtains around his four poster bed and ate all the cauldron cakes he had stashed away in his trunk.

The next morning an owl dropped a package over his breakfast bowl. Inside was a package of fine, expensive Swiss chocolates, coated with nougat and drizzled with confectionary sugar. They reminded Draco of Sunday night dinners at the manor, Lucius pontificating on about wizarding purity, his mother passing him a square of chocolate goodness to distract him, Draco’s mouth blissfully full, nodding, mindlessly, to whatever bile Lucius spilled-

Regret. It was too early in the morning for the usual mix of regret and guilt and shame and self loathing.

A note dropped onto his plate.

I know what it’s like to be hungry. H

Draco looked up across the hall and saw that Harry had been watching Draco intently. Thank you, Draco mouthed. From across the hall Harry shrugged like it was nothing. It wasn’t. Harry must’ve gone to Hogsmeade late last night to get these.

Draco put a preservation charm on them to save for later.

In his room at night, surrounded by cheap candies, the kind middle class wizards liked to snack on during break at their 9- jobs, Draco stared at Harry’s swiss chocolates. A gift. There were only twenty of them in the package, each delicately crafted and wittled into fine little sculptures, and they weren’t meant to be eaten the way Draco had been eating. They weren’t meant to be shoved down a throat hurriedly, for the dual purposes of proving that look, you aren’t hungry, you won’t need to worry about hunger again and for assuring Draco that he wasn’t his father, he didn’t even bear the slightest resemblance to him (or any Malfoy, for that matter) and he never would be. The paunch in Draco’s robes meant he was ordinary, a background character rather than a main actor, a punchline rather than a subject. How had Harry still noticed him?

Harry was right. Draco was hungry. Hungry for love, acceptance, absolution, forgiveness. Barring that, Draco was hungry for his Bertie Botts, his bangers and mash, his Muggle cheeseburgers. Draco would take what he could get. Draco didn’t suppose Harry had ever been hungry like that.

Draco owled back to Harry at lunch.

I’m not hungry. But thank you. DM

The owl was using bit Draco’s finger angrily when he hesitated before opening Harry’s letter at dinner.

Good. Neither of us are ever going to be really hungry again, I don’t think. H

Harry found Draco wandering the castle that night.  He found Draco right outside of the gargoyle where Dumbledore’s office used to be. Harry was practically swimming in his robes. Harry was short, gaunt, tired looking. Draco was eating too much, sleeping too much, thinking too much. They made a fine pair.

“He always used food as passwords,” Harry said, catching up to Draco.

Draco blinked.

“Dumbledore, I mean. Lemon drops, sherbert lemon. When I tried to get in I just guessed. Cockroach clusters, puking pastilles, and finally I said sherbert lemon and it opened.”

“What do you want me to say to that, Potter?” Draco snapped.

“We all eat,” said Harry. “We have to. To keep moving.”

“How deep,” said Draco. “You don’t look like you’re eating.”

“I am,” said Harry defensively. “I’m just – not always in the mood.”

Draco reached out and touched the gargoyles. “Canary creams. Fever fudge.”

“What are you doing?” said Harry.

Draco ignored him. “Acid pops,” he said, and to both of their surprise, the gargoyle sprang back and the door opened.

“You’re going in?” said Harry.

Draco almost couldn’t bear to look at Harry.  The cocktail of regretshameguiltloathing was filling him, he was drunk on it, and Potter was gaunt and miserable and mourning because he let death eaters into the castle and and and-

Harry squared his shoulders and walked in. Draco followed.

“It looks exactly the same,” said Harry in a hushed, nervous voice. “I thought maybe McGonagall would’ve-“

Then Harry cut himself off and Draco was silent, following him up the stairs to Dumbledore’s desk.

“The sorting hat used to be there,” said Harry, pointing to a shelf. “Dunno where it is now.”

Draco imagined the sorting hat wouldn’t want to sort him now at all. “You don’t belong in a house,” he would tell him. “You don’t belong at Hogwarts.” The funny thing was, Draco had really liked Hogwarts. It was warm in a way the manor wasn’t, and weird in a way Narcissa would never have allowed him to be, and full of interesting, awful people like Mad Eye Moody and Harry Potter.

“The old thing tried to put me in Slytherin,” said Harry. At this Draco stopped short and knocked over a stack of books in his shock. The old Malfoy grace was gone. “What about you?” said Harry.

Draco shook his head. “Put me right in Slytherin,” he said. “I practically begged for it. My father-“

“You’ll be in Slytherin, of course,” said Lucius. “There’s never been a Malfoy hatstall and there isn’t about to be one now.”

Narcissa had nodded.

“Well, the hat takes the wearer’s feelings into consideration,” said Harry. “It did with me.”

Draco swallowed.

There was an open jar of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans on Dumbledore’s old mahogany desk. Here Dumbledore had sat, like a king, while the students below him had hugged and hexed and been murdered on his watch. Portraits of sleeping headmasters had been covered with thick sheets all around them.

“They don’t expire,” said Harry, watching Draco look at the beans. “Want one?”

Harry seemed insanely irreverent, offering up what was probably Dumbledore’s final snack to Draco as though it were nothing.

“No,” said Draco. Harry looked disappointed.

Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out the swiss chocolates Harry had given him. He lowered himself to the floor and opened the box. All twenty chocolates were lying there, pristine.

“You haven’t tried them?” said Harry.

Draco nudged the box towards Harry. “I was waiting for a special occasion,” he said. “We probably only have a few more minutes before someone realizes the wards to the office have been set off, so now’s as good as any time, right?”

Harry lowered himself to the floor, all jutting knees and collarbones. “This is Hogwarts,” said Harry. “No one’s coming. We could probably stay here all night and no one would realize.”

“So have one,” said Draco.

“You first,” said Harry.

Draco’s mouth watered, staring at the hand crafted delicacies. “First tell me why you gave them to me,” he said, deflecting, not wanting Harry to realize how good the chocolates looked to him.

“Just eat one,” said Harry irritably.

“Tell me.”

“Fine,” said Harry. “I just thought – you should know it’s okay to want to eat.”

“I know it’s okay,” said Draco, but he was turning his face away from Harry and stuffing a chocolate in his mouth, blinking rapidly to stop himself from doing anything humiliating like crying in front of the great Harry Potter (again). The chocolate was exquisite, a panoply of complex flavors. Draco barely tasted it.

Draco had been a voracious, hungry child before he mastered the Malfoy ways.

“Always leave food on your plate,” said Narcissa.

“Never be the first or last to take anything,” said Lucius, bored. Food had never interested him.

“I don’t gain,” said Narcissa, proud. Draco had no idea whether food had ever interested her.

“Malfoys don’t gain,” said Lucius.

“Don’t eat like a house elf,” Narcissa used to tell Draco, before he learned. That meant don’t eat gluttonously, like there won’t be food tomorrow. We’re Malfoys and there will always be food tomorrow. Don’t show signs of hunger. Not for food, not for people, not for anything you didn’t inherit. Hunger was a private shame, to be borne alone.

“A bespoke cloak can only do so much for a fat oaf,” said Lucius. “A splendid cut cannot help a gluttonous body.”

“Always go to bed hungry,” said Narcissa. “Just a little bit.”

Food was the enemy of the aristocracy. But Draco wasn’t an aristocrat anymore. The Malfoy name was a blemish on the wizarding world. Food could now mean to Draco what it meant to the rest of the world; sustenance, proof of existence, possibly warmth. It was hard to force yourself go to bed hungry if you didn’t know what you would eat the next day.

“Slow down,” said Harry, touching Draco’s arm, and Draco reared back, terrified Harry meant to slow his eating of the chocolate, but it became clear that he meant Draco’s breathing, which was erratic, halting, out of control (just like the rest of him, oozing out of his robes like a pig)-

“Breathe,” said Harry soothingly, and Draco still couldn’t look at Harry, not with this embarrassing wetness on his face, his emotions spilling out in all directions-

Draco breathed in and out. Again and again and again.

“You’re so thin,” muttered Draco. “You and all your lot. How do you do it?”

“We’re not,” said Harry. “We’re all different.”

Draco could feel Harry’s body lined up against him, bony thigh to fleshy thigh.

“You are-“ started Draco but Harry shook his head fiercely.

“These are Sirius’ robes,” he said. “My godfather. They’re big on me because he was much taller. That’s all.”

Draco worked on breathing normally again.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Sorry. For all that.”

“Don’t think so much,” said Harry. His hand was still wrapped around Draco. It was a pleasant weight. Harry smelled like green tea and laundry and the success of having made all the right choices.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with me,” said Draco. “Me and all my…outbursts.”

“I went looking for you tonight,” said Harry.

“You did? But…how did you find me?”

Harry shrugged. “State secret,” he said.

There was another minute of silence. Harry took a chocolate and ate it, slowly, sweetly. From the corner of his peripheral vision, Draco watched Harry’s jaw work. It was a strong jaw, the kind a hero would possess. Draco had no idea what a hero was doing on the floor of Dumbledore’s office in the middle of the night with him.

“You should wear robes that fit,” said Draco. “You should go to Twillfit’s Tailoring. That’s where I used to go.”

Harry shifted a bit. “Why used to?”

“They don’t make robes this size,” said Draco. It was easier than saying that the Malfoy money, whatever was left of it, was dirty, blood stained, unearned.

“Of course they do,” said Harry. “He’s a tailor, not a dress shop. If he can’t tailor to fit all sizes, he’s not much of a tailor. You think only thin people wear nice things?”

“I don’t want him to see me,” mumbled Draco.

“And I don’t particularly want new robes,” said Harry, plucking at the front of his. “These were left to me.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Draco. He had a sudden urge to run over to Dumbledore’s desk and bang his head against a thousand times, until his head split open and his thoughts dissipated. “That you had to have things left to you.”

“Malfoy,” said Harry. “It’s not entirely your fault.”

Draco’s weeping was loud and noisy and unrestrained and common and thoroughly unaristocratic. In that moment he was no son of Narcissa’s, no scion of the Malfoy’s, belonging to no one and nothing. He wept, aware of the weight of Harry’s gaze, and stuffed chocolates haphazardly into his mouth between sobs.

When all the chocolates were gone, Draco felt sick and exhausted and drained. Harry banished the box quickly.

“We should go to bed,” said Harry gently.

He’s repulsed by you! sang Draco’s mind. You showed him your true self, the dribbling slob that hid behind the Malfoy name, and he’s disgusted! You’re filthy and hungry and desperate! He’s finished!

“I think we’re both tired,” Harry added.

Draco stood up slowly with Harry. He wobbled, still getting used to his new center of gravity.

“Sorry,” Draco muttered again. “About everything. I’m a disaster. I’m sorry.”

“I know that now,” said Harry, climbing down the stairs. “I know you’re sorry.”

Draco chanced a look at Harry. Harry looked worn out, gentle, calm, a little worried, mysterious, patient. Harry looked a little hungry himself, but for what, Draco had no idea.

“Good,” said Harry. “Was starting to think you thought I was a basilisk.”

Draco laughed a little.

“Do you like custard creams?” said Harry.

Draco shrugged.

“I’ll get you some,” said Harry.

“Don’t,” said Draco.

“It’s a gift,” said Harry.

Draco wanted to ask why but he was afraid of the answer. Don’t you know I’m a failure, Potter? No Malfoy looks, no Malfoy standing, no money, no prospects?

“Suck on a peppermint teabag before you go to bed,” Narcissa had advised Draco. “It gets rid of the hunger pangs.”

She had always sent him school packages with teabags in them.

Harry patted Draco’s shoulder and they went their separate ways.

Two days later there was a package of custard creams and a note from a black owl.

As promised. H

Harry was always watching him at meals. He seemed to be examining the way Draco held his fork and knife, the way he tucked his napkin into his lap, the way years of good breeding had been useless in preventing him from going to seed, the way Draco’s private rebellion against his father had been made public by his expanding waist.

If Draco was ashamed of Harry’s staring, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop eating. Whether the food was good or it wasn’t, it was there, and Draco was there, and he had to eat it, in case he wasn’t as solid the next day, to eat his way to immovability.

Draco sent the custard creams back with a note.

Please stop watching me eat. DM

By lunch Draco had the custard creams back and a note.

But you look so good doing it. H

Draco couldn’t think again. There was nothing beautiful about him cramming food down his gullet, about showing the world how human and vulnerable and damn hungry he was. There was nothing beautiful about sizing up and suffering through pitying glances. His pale porcelain hue was gone. He was rosy and expanding and everyone could see it.

Draco tucked the note into his trunk along with his collection of snacks and pushed the whole mess under his bed. The custard creams he saved for later. They looked delectable.

\--

They met outside Dumbledore’s office at precisely 11:45 PM. Nobody noticed Draco leave the Slytherin common room. Harry found him again inexplicably, tapping him on the shoulder and laughing when Draco whirled around.

“How did you find me?” Draco demanded.

Harry shrugged. “I just did. Did you bring the custard creams?”

Draco held them up. “It’s called a custard tart, you know.”

“Whatever,” said Harry. “They have cream in them, don’t they?”

It’s good to call things by their proper names, thought Draco but he knew better than to say it, to draw another parallel between the way Harry had always took care to call the Dark Lord Voldemort while Draco had shuddered at the mention of You Know Who. Coward. Coward. Coward.

“Let’s go,” said Harry. “Acid pops.”

The gargoyle swung open without changing expression.

“I can’t believe this office isn’t warded,” said Draco.

“I guess they thought no one would dare, after –“ started Harry but he stopped.

They sat down as they had the night before, next to Dumbledore’s desk. Draco’s hands shook with nerves as he placed the custard tarts between them. The desserts felt dangerous, as if they were interlaced with a powerful magic.

“Do you just want to watch me eat them?” said Draco and Harry shook out of his reverie.

“Haven’t eaten all day,” said Harry.

“That’s stupid,” said Draco. “I saw you at all the meals.”

“I wasn’t hungry then. M’hungry now.”

Harry ripped open the package carelessly and stuffed a tart in his mouth.  With his other hand he handed Draco a tart. There were six in the package to start with and now only four on the ground.

“Don’t make me eat alone,” said Harry.

Draco took the tart cautiously. It smelled like winters at Hogwarts in fourth year, a first kiss with a Durmstrang boy, going to sleep in magically warmed bedsheets, everything safe in the world. Draco’s tongue darted out to taste.

Harry’s gaze honed in until it was just him and Draco and the tarts, alone in a void of their own making.

“Why are you doing this?” said Draco.

“I don’t know,” said Harry.

“You think I look good.”

“That’s what I wrote.”

“…Why?”

Harry glanced down at Draco’s stomach, where it pooched over his pajama bottoms. “I don’t know.”

“Then think about it,” said Draco, taking a second tart. It took him a moment to place what he was feeling. It was enjoyment. Harry’s unwavering gaze on him, as though he was the axis on which the world turned.

“You can’t run very fast anymore,” said Harry.

“And- and you like that?”

“You can’t save yourself anymore. You’re not perfect anymore. ”

It wasn’t a slap in the face, but it felt close to it for Draco. “I was never perfect,” Draco managed.

“I like seeing you enjoy yourself. You didn’t use to enjoy food like this.”

“No,” said Draco.

“And sometimes you aren’t enjoying it and I want you to. It’s…I dunno…sexy.”

Draco looked away from Harry and down at the plate. Somehow they were down to one last tart.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” said Draco. “Some adoring fan club to look after, some pretty Hufflepuff to fuck?”

Harry stood up. “Fine,” he said. “I get it. You don’t like this.”

He stretched. Draco could practically see the smooth, flat skin on Harry’s stomach as he lifted his arms.

“Wait,” said Draco.

Harry sat back down immediately.

Draco started to grin. This was just like it had been with Nott, before Draco had gained the weight.

“I do like it,” said Draco, taking the last custard tart. As Draco chewed, he unbuttoned his shirt. “Are you sure you do?”

Harry ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah,” he said. He yanked himself closer to Draco and pulled off the rest of Draco’s shirt.

“Here?” said Draco, looking around.

“I don’t care,” said Harry fiercely, yanking down Draco’s pants.

This, then, was Harry’s post-war rebellion. Fucking a death eater, fucking a fat person, fucking an old nemesis. Fucking Draco Malfoy. Seeing how many Gryffindor taboos he could break at once. Gryffindors were all sporty and active and busy being boundless wells of energy. To have a once great Slytherin now gone to seed underneath him would be a personal triumph for Harry. This memory would probably be stuffed into some Pensieve to be examined by the entire Gryffindor dormitory at a later date.

Draco thought all this, but it didn’t matter. He let Harry strip him bare, examine him with an almost clinical, disaffected eye, as though cataloguing for changes between pre and post war Draco.

Draco tried not to think too much at Harry’s body, the inevitable comparisons between the savior’s body and his own. Yet Draco was greedy for it, greedy for Harry’s hands and fingers and cock, kneading and tickling and pinching at his pounds of flesh.

“You’re hard,” said Harry, almost surprised, still hovering above Draco, still fully dressed.

Draco yanked Harry down to him. “Obviously,” he said.

Harry was treating him like a prince, like the Slytherin prince he once was. But Draco wasn’t behaving like any aristocrat he had ever met. He was moaning far too loudly to be decent, a smidgen of drool had escaped his mouth (Draco hastily wiped it away) and his every nerve was attuned to Harry’s presence, insatiable for him.

“I’ve got stuff,” said Harry, pulling lube out of his pocket. Draco spread his legs instinctively. He could barely see Harry while he was lying down like this. He knew Harry was getting quite a view of him, all his lumps and bumps, stretch marks and dimples. “If you want?”

Draco stretched his legs as wide as they could spread. “Yes,” he hissed.

He didn’t even have time to be perturbed at the gall of Harry, bringing lube to a meeting with him, bringing lube to Dumbledore’s office, of all places.

“You look so good,” said Harry.

Draco muttered the cleaning spells quickly. A flush was spreading over his entire body. Nobody had ever seen him like this. Not Nott, Polkiss or any of the others. He was naked, not hiding behind the veil of his looks. He was bare, he was transparent, he was flawed and he was incredibly turned on.

“Fuck me,” said Draco. “Please, fuck me.”

“Oh god,” said Harry. He was fingering Draco now. One finger, then two, then three. There was the usual discomfort and pain, followed by the revelation of pleasure. And then there was Harry’s body, stripped finally. Draco could see every one of Harry’s ribs. Harry was beautiful. He could fit into any cloak at Twillfit’s. Draco’s erection flagged.

You fat useless fuck, he thought to himself. You haven’t done anything but lie here like a great sodding lazy whale, you enormous fucking waste of space-

Harry’s hands were on Draco’s cock now, trying to stir it back to life.

“What’s the matter?” said Harry.

Draco shook his head. “Just fuck me,” he said.

“What’s the matter?” said Harry, dropping Draco’s cock and crawling up to Draco.

Draco didn’t want to give Harry a moment to see him with the foreplay paused, to see the evidence of Draco’s greed, his late night post dinner indiscretions writ across his belly. Draco tossed his arm over his stomach and then dropped it. He was afraid seeing his arm near his stomach would only emphasize how enormous his stomach was.

Harry tucked Draco’s hair behind his ears and pecked him on the lips. It could have been almost domestic, had Draco not been leaking lube and humiliation.

“You smell so good,” whispered Harry. “And you’re all rosy and sweet now. And you’re – you’re sorry, aren’t you?”

Draco nodded fervently. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m always  - I’m always sorry.”

Harry’s hands were trailing down Draco’s stomach again, knocking Draco’s arms out of the way. “I like this,” said Harry. “I promise you, I really, really like this.”

Draco closed his eyes.

“Is it me?” said Harry. “Seeing me?”

Draco wasn’t aware his expression had changed at all but Harry read it.

“Nox,” he whispered. “Is this better?”

Draco opened his eyes. Harry’s hands were still on his traitorous quivering stomach. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

“There we go,” said Harry, reaching down to feel Draco’s hardening cock. “Better?”

“Better,” Draco said hoarsely. “Sorry.”

“Shh,” said Harry, positioning himself. “No more sorrys.”

There was no dignity left for Draco, but it didn’t matter in the dark. In Dumbledore’s office, where portraits of sleeping headmasters were covered, where Dumbledore had molded Harry into a human shield, where Draco lay, fat and wanting and hungry, Harry penetrated him.

It was over quickly. Draco squealed and sighed and forget how to speak under Harry. Harry let out tiny unexpected whimpers and moans and groans. Together there was a cacophony of noise. Draco lay, splattered with come, trying not to think about how to dress quickly before Harry let the light back in.

Harry kissed up his side.

“I didn’t know you liked that, Potter,” said Draco, finding his voice.

“I didn’t know either,” said Harry. A lump was rising in Draco’s throat. “S’not just because of how you look,” he added, but Draco didn’t believe him. “Seriously, ask Ron and Hermione. They’ve always thought I was obsessed with you.”

Harry’s hand was still tapping absently on Draco’s midsection. Tap tap tap. Draco sat up abruptly and felt around in the dark for his robes. He didn’t deserve to lie alone with the savior of the wizarding world, listening while the savior spun him beautiful falsehoods.

“You don’t have to be nice to me,” said Draco.

“Do you not want me to be?” said Harry.

Harry graciously did not cast a Lumos until Draco was dressed.

“Let me take you to Twillfit’s on Saturday,” Harry proposed. “We’ll both get new robes that fit.”

Draco headed for the door and he couldn’t face Harry.

“There’s a Honeydukes café near there,” said Harry. “I looked it up.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Draco gritted out.

“I like you,” said Harry. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes!” Draco roared. “Yes, it is!”

Harry hugged Draco’s back tightly. Draco was stiff in his arms. “Well, I do,” said Harry.

“I don’t know why you could possibly,” said Draco, and he yanked himself out of Harry’s arms and left.

\--

For the rest of the year, Draco and Harry didn’t speak. Draco kept getting deliveries from school owls, enough deliveries that Pansy got curious to talk to him.

“You look like shit,” she told Draco.

“Yeah, so do you,” said Draco. “We can’t all mourn in sexy ways.”

“What are you even mourning for?”

Draco stared at Pansy.

“You mourned in sixth year,” said Pansy. “When you knew all of this was coming.”

“You can’t preemptively mourn, Pansy.”

“Just stop eating,” said Pansy. “Stop eating and everything will be like it was before.”

“I’m not interested,” said Draco nastily. “In you. Any of it. I never was.”

They had slept together in fifth year. Draco had been drunk and Pansy had been not. Draco had pestered Pansy until she revealed she couldn’t get pregnant. It had been a harrowing week amidst a year of harrowing weeks. And along it, Harry scowling at him from the safety of Gryffindor’s table, torn between him and Ginny Weasley and his destiny. God.

Pansy stared at her empty plate. She was a harsh looking woman, Draco could see that. He could see exactly where the lines would come on her face, little crow’s feet, wrinkles here and there. He knew exactly what Pansy would do to combat them. First start with a little Disillusionment charm on the way to the Healer’s, then the exact spells, expensive and painful, that would be cast on Pansy’s face to restore it to some semblance of its youthful state. It was exactly what Draco’s mother had done. Draco had picked her up from the hospital to Floo with her home.

Narcissa had felt as weak as a bird in his arms.

But Pansy wasn’t beautifully unapproachable like Narcissa. She was just unapproachable. Tall, thin, with expertly done brows. Draco loved her. She had been the one to show him which Durmstrang boys were interested in him. She was the one who had found him a room to learn how to suck cock with them. She was the one who waited outside the room and put a cigarette in his mouth when he was done. “Now we’re grown ups,” she said. Draco had laughed.

Pansy’s hands had wandered around his body, as though checking to make sure Draco was still the same. Draco had been comfortable with her when he didn’t know what she wanted.

They would be perfect together. Pansy’s family could use the Malfoy connection. Pansy would look fantastic with money. A little Malfoy heir would  complete the package. If only Draco hadn’t expressed a predilection for flat chests, sweaty quivering men with their sweaty quivering cocks.

“We’ve always been grownups,” he said then, but he knew what she meant. This is what them getting married would have looked like. Pansy letting him carry on in secret, waiting for him outside the door.

“Fine,” said Pansy now. “You don’t have to be interested in me. Just- it’s not healthy, the way you’re going.”

Draco’s plate was piled high with muffins and eggs.

“Don’t talk to me about health,” he said.

An owl flew down and dropped a package onto Draco’s plate.

“Damn it,” said Draco. Pansy smirked nastily.

“Teabags from Mummy?” she said.

Draco placed the package safely between his legs.

“Seriously, Draco, who is it from?” she said.

Draco looked at her. Pansy was mean. She was mean when she was concerned. She was mean when she tried to give up Harry Potter to the Dark Lord. She had no concept of wrong or right. But then neither did he. They only had ideas of what they wanted and wanted they didn’t and after the war, when their wants had so clearly been placed in the wrong category, all of that was fragmenting.

Draco tried some Harry-speak on Pansy.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said. “Always have been. Whatever you eat is fine.”

“What the fuck?” said Pansy. And then softer, “so we are still friends?”

“Are you sorry?” said Draco. “About the war, all of it?”

“Do you want me to be?” said Pansy.

Draco groaned. “Be whatever you are. Are you sorry?”

Pansy looked around the room, mouth pursed. They were sitting at the very end of Slytherin table. The other Slytherins had wisely rallied around the newly sorted Slytherins, or more specifically any Muggleborns among them, in a constant show of proving their innocence by kissing the young Muggleborn Slytherin arses.

The rest of the Hall’s face’s seemed frozen in a perpetual scowl.

“Yes,” said Pansy. “I’m sorry it ended up like this.”

Draco knew Pansy wasn’t sorry for her part in the war, in encouraging him, “just do this for the Dark Lord and it’ll be over,” in participating in it all, in trying to sacrifice Harry when the stubborn git was going to sacrifice himself anyway.

In an alternate universe Pansy was draped in feathers and jewels, a thin, healthy naked Draco lapping between her legs, the Dark Mark branded on both of their arms. Pansy was sorry this universe had never come to pass.

“I’m not telling you who the candy’s from,” said Draco.

“Ooh, so it’s candy?” said Pansy.

“Damn it,” said Draco.

Harry was watching him from Gryffindor. There was a very pretty Ravenclaw boy talking to him but Harry was ignoring him. “You like it?” Harry mouthed.

Draco stopped looking at Harry looking at him. He pushed his heaping plate away.

“Good,” said Pansy.

Then Draco ripped open the package. It was delicate sugar cookies, baked to perfection. He pushed them over to Pansy. “Eat,” Draco commanded.

Pansy rolled her eyes but took one.

The note was not a note. It was a Twillfit’s appointment card for 11AM on Saturday. Draco pressed it into his robes.

When Pansy started on a second cookie, Harry looked away and he did not look back.

11AM on Saturday came and went, and Draco did not show. He was eating the last sugar cookie in his bed, slowly, as it was meant to be eaten, and he certainly wasn’t crying like a child.

Harry kept the packages up the whole year. He dated some ugly Gryffindor girl, notably not Ginny Weasley, and slept with a truly repulsive Slytherin sixth year, and notably not Draco Malfoy. Then there was the Ravenclaw boy (again?), the Hufflepuff twins and then they graduated. All of them, except the Gryffindor girl, were slim hipped and athletic.

“Thank you,” said Draco to Harry, on their final day at Hogwarts. He had weaved his way to Harry through a crowd of admirers and well wishers. Harry looked incredible; vibrant, youthful, alive, excited. Draco was sure Harry didn’t want to see him, but he went over anyway. “It’s just etiquette.” That’s what Narcissa would have said.

Harry took hold of Draco’s elbow.

“For the things,” continued Draco.

Harry’s grip on Draco’s elbow was starting to hurt.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” said Harry.

The pain was still fresh. Etiquette. Etiquette. Etiquette. There were rules for situations like this.

“Thank you,” said Draco. “She-“

“Harry, Shacklebolt came to see you,” Hermione interrupted.

Harry let go of Draco’s arm. “Did he?” he said.

Hermione was looking Draco over with kind eyes. “We were sorry to hear about your mother.”

Draco felt empty without Harry’s attention. “No you weren’t,” he said. “She was a death eater or married to one or gave birth to one and she’s harmless dead now, isn’t she?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Harry’s attention was back. He and Hermione seemed to be engaging in some kind of silent conversation about Draco. Had Harry mastered legilimency with Hermione? Draco wouldn’t put it past them. The whole world was open to them in a way it would never be to Draco. Of course they were learning legilimency. One of the two was probably the next Minister of Magic, right after they assassinated Shacklebolt.

“No,” said Harry. “No one thought that.”

“Some people did,” said Draco nastily.

“Look,” said Harry, “can we-“

But then the Ravenclaw boy was there, pulling on Harry’s sleeve, simpering and no one noticed Draco drifting away.

There were parties going on their last night in Hogwarts. The Gryffindors were particularly loud and the Slytherins were particularly drunk. Pansy had left school with her diploma hours before, claiming a headache. Draco stayed in his room.

This was where he had grown up. This was where he had felt safe enough to taunt and mock. This was where he had lost his virginity, gotten drunk, competed in Quidditch.

Draco stripped off all his clothes silently. It was fine, Goyle was long gone, Zabini and Nott were out, no one cared what Draco did. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and examined himself.

His hair was long, curling a bit where it flopped into his face, thick and luscious. His eyes were alert and almost calm. All his edges had rounded. All his paleness was now rosy. He turned around examined himself from the back. His arse was noticeably large, his thighs thick and steady, like tree trunks. There were long uninterrupted expanses of flesh there hadn’t been before. Draco looked like a man. He looked like an adult man. No one would confuse him for Lucius, not this rosy, solid person in front of him. He was not a punchline, he was fascinating. There were scars on his chest, white, almost indiscernible proof of Harry Potter’s interest in him. Draco was more than he was before. He liked it.

Narcissi had never gotten to see Draco comfortable in his skin. Draco wished she had. She had always wanted him to call her Narcissa, “like we’re dear friends, see?” instead of something like Mum or Mama. They were friends in the end, exchanging letters while Draco finished his studies at Hogwarts. Perhaps if Narcissa had seen Draco enjoying his new self, she wouldn’t have wanted him to lose the weight so badly. Draco wished with a painful ache that she could see him, the man in the mirror who wanted so badly to like himself.

Harry Potter had liked him. Harry Potter had liked him enough to follow him around the school, to send him treats for a year, no matter who he was busy dating. Draco tried to banish this thought but it haunted him, the feeling of Harry Potter’s attention from just a few hours ago. Draco’s cock was fattening up at the idea of Harry liking what he saw. He gripped the base of it and leaned against the mirror.

When Draco came it was with Harry’s name on his lips. Sweet Merlin, nothing had changed.

Draco put his clothes back on hastily. He wanted to walk around the castle one more time. If he was being honest, he wanted to want to run into Harry Potter one more time. Draco grimaced at the mirror as he rolled the sleeves of his robes up, but the grimace came and went.

Narcissa would’ve hated what Draco had become.

Draco left.

Harry was waiting for him by Dumbledore’s office.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” said Harry.

“Neither did you,” said Draco. “I mean, neither did I. Neither did I think you were coming.”

It was late and Draco was still feeling heady from his orgasm.

“Were you busy?” said Harry, watching him through slanted eyes.

“What?” Draco snapped.

“You look like you’ve been busy,” said Harry.

Draco felt his cheeks. They were hot and flushed. His clothes had been thrown on in a rush. He probably looked like he had just finished having a shag.

“I wasn’t,” said Draco. “Then again, you’ve been pretty busy this whole year, haven’t you?”

Harry gaped. “You turned me down!”

“No, I didn’t!” said Draco. “I just didn’t think-“

“NO, you turned me down,” said Harry. “I definitely remember that.”

“Well, you got over it pretty sodding quickly, didn’t you?”

Harry was quiet. “Hermione always says I’m the most unobservant person alive,” he said. “But I feel like I notice everything when it comes to you.”

“You didn’t notice that I hadn’t turned you down,” said Draco, petty in his shock.

“I noticed that you didn’t seem comfortable with yourself,” said Harry. “Not ready to date anyone.”

“Well, that’s not your decision to make, is it!”

“It is if I’m the person who wanted to date you!”

Draco fisted his hands inside his robes. Harry was the most insufferable, idiotic, certainly unobservant wizard alive.

“Acid pops,” Harry said to the gargoyle, but it wouldn’t open.

“Acid pops,” said Draco, louder, but the gargoyle didn’t budge.

“Password must have changed,” said Harry.

“Obviously,” said Draco. “Drooble’s blowing gum. Blood pops. Jelly slugs.”

“It’s not going to be a candy anymore,” said Harry. “Dumbledore’s dead. Whoever changed it probably didn’t do a sweet as a password.”

“I know that,” said Draco. “Just couldn’t hurt to try.”

Harry lowered himself to the corridor floor. “I never came here all that much,” he confessed. “Everyone thought I was Dumbledore’s special boy but I really didn’t know him all that well.”

Draco shrugged reluctantly. He had always wanted this, Harry Potter confessing to him. He was scared to blink, lest it all be a mirage that was really just Draco wanking in the bathroom. “Nobody really knew him,” said Draco.

“Maybe McGonagall,” said Harry. Draco sighed.

“How did you find me tonight?” said Draco. What he really wanted to ask was why.

Harry budged himself closer to Draco. “It’s our last night here, so I suppose I can tell you. I have this map, this Maurader’s Map, that shows me where everyone is in Hogwarts. It’s how I always find you.”

Harry took it out. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

The map revealed its inhabitants. Draco stared. “So you always knew what I was doing,” he said.

Draco started to feel embarrassed at how Harry had evidently seen the hours Draco spent alone in his dorm, the late night pacing around the common room, the early morning trips to the kitchens.

“Well,” said Harry.

“Damnation,” said Draco. “That isn’t right. Don’t I – doesn’t everyone deserve a bit of privacy? Or what, a former death eater is always a suspect?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Draco, I never even said I was using the map to spy on you.”

“Well, you found me here with it, so obviously you were!”

“Fine,” said Harry. “I was only doing it because-“

“And why did you ask if I was busy, when you knew I wasn’t?”

“There are different kinds of busy! Your mother just died, Draco, I didn’t think you were off having some wild sex romp!”

Draco thought about his recent wank. Why was wanking over Harry always so much easier than actually being with him?

“Well, you should go,” said Draco. “Why are you here anyway?”

“I don’t want you to be alone on your last night in Hogwarts,” said Harry. “End on a bad note, and all.”

“End on a bad note? Potter, I let death eaters into the school! I almost killed your precious Dumbledore! My whole life is going to be one bad note after another!”

“No, it won’t,” said the great Harry Potter. “Not if I’m watching out for you.”

“You can’t save everyone! And you shouldn’t have to!”

“I’m not saving everyone,” said Harry. “It’s just you now. Well, you and a handful of other people.”

“Potter, have you lost your mind?”

“You gave up the Malfoy money. And I think you’re smart and funny and hot. I think we should date.”

“Take out the map,” said Draco.

“Why?”

“Find us an empty room.”

Harry took out the map. “Charm’s classroom’s the only one that doesn’t have couples in it.”

“Let’s go,” said Draco. Harry’s eyes were glinting with lust. Draco fished around in his pockets for the Peppermint Pasties Harry had sent him that week. He popped one in his mouth and handed another to Harry.

When Draco started to walk, Harry followed hungrily, like a hawk chasing its prey. Harry was scrawny but powerful. Magic sometimes radiated off him in waves. Draco loved it.

**Five years later, Hogmeade, Twilfitt’s, 12 PM on a Sunday**

A man strode through Hogsmeade. He was quite a striking fellow, with blonde hair knotted up in a messy ponytail and intelligent grey eyes scanning the darkness. He had some extra weight on him and he carried it well. His robes were a bright sky blue, skimming the lines of his body gently, and the fact that they covered up such a useful, magnificent body was a travesty.

Another man met him in the square. This man knew everyone and everyone knew him. His lightning scar on his forehead meant he was the savior of the wizarding world. While everyone watched him, he watched the blonde man, inspecting him carefully for signs of emotional wear and tear.

“Everything all right?” said Harry quietly as he reached the blonde man. Was that – it couldn’t be – Lucius Malfoy’s boy? He looked so unlike his father, so far removed from his mother – looking closer, it was clear that Harry’s bright purple robes were the same cut as the Malfoy boy’s, expensive, and made custom.

“All good,” said the other man  - Iago? Dax? What was his name?

Harry leaned in to kiss Dax and Dax relaxed into it.

“Let’s go to mine,” whispered Dax, and Harry Potter, the great Harry Potter, trotted after the blonde man ravenously, looking for all the world like he wanted to eat him.

 


End file.
